Willow, Willow
by let'sgetthoughtful
Summary: A little backstory and extension of Willa and Eric in the coffin, season 6, episode 3. Brief, dark, and hot one-shot. Rated M. (If you hate Willa—which is understandable—this is probably not for you.)


**Willow, Willow**

Willa was named after a chance experience with a Shakespeare play. When her mother was young, she wanted to be an actress more than anything. At 17, she had an opportunity to play Desdemona in a community production of _Othello_. Everyone who saw it told her how breathtaking, how heartbreaking she had been. The review in the town paper singled out her song "Willow" as especially extraordinary. Desdemona sings it to herself on the eve of her death, knowing and accepting that Othello will appear at any moment and likely end her life, though she does not deserve it. Willa's mother had written the tune herself, and sang the words with a lilting, hollow sadness: "The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,/Sing all a green willow:/Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,/Sing Willow, willow, willow." It was beautiful.

The production was the pinnacle of her young life, but it also changed it. After the show, Willa's mother had more suitors than she could ever want. She eventually chose one—the one who flattered her the most, who seemed the most successful—and married him, though she was never entirely happy. She deferred her own dreams in sacrifice to his year after year, and they slowly faded further and further from her until she'd almost forgotten them. But sometimes, during the parties and dinners dedicated to her husband's successes in politics, the refrain of the tune would come into her head, softly and quietly, like a somber whisper. _Sing willow, willow, willow_. When she learned she was pregnant with a daughter, the name seemed fated. Her husband forced the change from Willow to Willa—"I'll not have a daughter of mine named after a tree like some dirty hippie!"—but it still served as a reminder of her past triumph and her current emptiness, of beauty and infinite sadness. Once Willa was born, she would often hum the tune to lull her to sleep.

Though she wasn't always aware of it, Willa relished the aura of tragic beauty surrounding her name. When she was finally old enough to hear her mother's account of it, she threw herself into the tale of _Othello_—passionate love and overwhelming jealousy—with abandon. Despite the ending, Willa found it all terribly romantic. As a young girl, she spent many hours imagining a deep, dark love impossible to sustain.

So when Willa found herself with a strip of duct tape over her mouth, locked in a coffin side by side with the most gorgeous, dangerous, calculating man she'd encountered in her young life, she was as excited as she was terrified. She wasn't used to being close to men of any variety, let alone attractive vampires, and her body felt warm and alive and strangely feverish. After bravely pulling off the tape, she tried to talk to Eric for a while, to lessen the awkwardness of the situation, to find out who the motionless specimen of perfection nestled beside her actually was. His casual indifference to her in speech did not seem to fit with the occasional avid sparkle in his eyes.

She talked about her father's misguided plans, about her mother's new vampire boyfriend. Willa even told him how much she liked vampires herself, although Eric seemed to doubt her reasons for declaring it. She knew he was mocking her, testing her, but didn't know how to show her sincerity.

That was when she noticed the steady trickle of blood running out of his inner ear. All at once, Eric's unbearable confidence, strength, and impenetrability faded a bit. He seemed vulnerable. Willa felt sorry for him, but also overcome by an intense rush of excitement.

You have the bleeds," she said, fascinated. He looked at her wearily, as if she was a small child.

"Like I said, I'm meant to be dead during the day."

Willa wanted to comfort him somehow, to show him she was mature enough to understand, but the sight of his blood made her feel wanton, as if she was glimpsing something illicit. Though she knew the action wasn't polite, that it extended past any normal social barrier, she reached out her index finger on impulse and took a finger-full, streaking it down the length of his flawless cheek. Willa wasn't sure what she wanted to do with it at first. Eric stared at her, motionless, waiting. His cool direct gaze made her feel breathless and flustered. Suddenly remembering what she'd heard about ingesting vampire blood (as well as the recent screams of pleasure echoing out of her mother's locked bedroom), Willa wanted more than anything to taste it.

Slowly, trembling a little, she brought her finger closer and closer to her mouth. Eric's eyes followed her action—penetrating, still, intense. She felt grown-up, passionate, flushed; this was the closest she had ever come to seducing someone. But just as she reached out her tongue to lick the drop away, he caught her finger so fast it astonished her.

"No," he said simply. "I can't let you do that." Willa froze, though too excited to feel the sting of his denial sharply. She relished the feeling of his hand on hers. Instead of wiping the blood away, he brought her finger towards him instead. In a tantalizing, dark mirror of her desire, he sucked her finger into his mouth. She felt her blood throb through the barrier of her skin against his tongue.

Eric took some pleasure in the pulse of her blood, but much more in feeling her fear and anticipation. She was a virgin, and though he had no designs on altering that, her inexperienced arousal amused him. He wanted to see how she would react, what she would do. He felt her heartbeat speed along like a tiny bird. Once he'd licked her finger clean, Eric ran his tongue over his lips to tease her, to tempt her. He fought to keep from smiling as he took in the fervent desire pooling in her wide, lovely eyes.

Despite her heightened arousal, Willa was aware, watching his display, of how young and inexperienced she was. She had no recourse to his bold, confident seduction. Perhaps for the first time, she realized there was as much power in silent authority as there was in brash displays of strength. Eric suddenly didn't seem vulnerable at all.

Instantly turning from her with a disinterested calm, he commanded, "Now put your tape back on." His eyes sealed shut. His sudden rejection made their earlier exchange feel even more heated. Her blood was boiling; she wanted his lips back on her body. His quiet stillness and his ruthless control left her in awe and on fire.

Willa waited for what felt like an hour after that, her finger vibrating, coated with the memory of Eric's fluids. She thought about his aggressive fingers on her earlier in the night. She thought about his threats and his promises. She thought about his hot eyes on her. But mostly she thought about his tongue, smooth and wet and slick against her.

When she was certain he had died for the day, she slipped the same finger down to her sex. She wanted to move fast and hard, but the coffin restrained her. A light sheen of sweat formed as she tried desperately to increase the friction. Willa looked at Eric, so still, so calm, so masculine, so impossibly good-looking, and she wanted to scream. She wanted to rock herself against him, to throw herself onto him, to grab his hands and press them to her body, to feel him press his erection into the small of her back.

Looking at his angelic sleeping face, she moved inside herself as fast and deep as she could, imagining running her hands down him until she grasped his firm cock. Though she didn't touch him, she fixated on the image of palming him, stroking him softly as he watched motionlessly from behind heated eyes. With that fantasy wrapped full and strong around her, she finally pulsed around her finger, and a soft moan escaped her lips. Her consciousness faded into ecstasy.

At that moment, a deep, impossibly sexy voice said, "Goodnight, Willa."

Her eyes snapped open, her pulse hammering in her temples. Her face, already flushed, turned an even deeper crimson. She looked immediately at Eric. His eyes were closed, and for all intents and purposes, he seemed dead, except for the telltale smirk at the corner of his lips. Willa hoped for a moment that she'd imagined his words, or that she'd misheard the humor in them—that perhaps he didn't know what she doing when he spoke. She tried to quiet her harsh breathing, and settled down into the cushions to feign sleep. Her body betrayed her, though, with one last involuntary, gasping sigh. Unmistakably, Eric chuckled, long and low and devilish.

Willa felt hot, terrified, and unbearably romantic. She turned her eyes toward Eric's still form with endless longing. She had never wanted anything more in her life.


End file.
